


Unexpected

by slipsthrufingers



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, One Night Stand, Unplanned Pregnancy, alternating pov, timelines? I don't know her, tumblr prompt fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:06:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24054883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slipsthrufingers/pseuds/slipsthrufingers
Summary: At first he doesn’t notice. Perhaps it is because he is shocked to see her there. He and Cersei had prepared for the meeting, talking through their strategy for hours, but for all that talking he never thought Brienne would attend the Dragonpit summit. He’d never dared to hope for something so absurd, and if the thought occurred to him it would not have been something he’d wanted.A reimagining of the Dragonpit scene, written for a Tumblr prompt.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 285
Kudos: 466





	1. Dragonpit

**Author's Note:**

> specific tumblr prompt in the end notes.

At first he doesn’t notice. Perhaps it is because he is shocked to see her there. He and Cersei had prepared for the meeting, talking through their strategy for hours, but for all that talking he never thought Brienne would attend the Dragonpit summit. He’d never dared to hope for something so absurd, and if the thought occurred to him it would not have been something he wanted. No, it would’ve sunk deep into his stomach weighing him down with some awful, all-consuming dread, and the prospect of the meeting is terrifying enough as it is.

Jaime’d last seen her at Riverrun, rowing away from the castle in that absurd little boat. He thought it would be the last time he would see her. The thought had pained him, a sharp dagger pierced between his ribs, but it was a comfort to know she was safely away from the castle.

So he is surprised when he sees her, sitting where Sansa Stark ought to be. She, too, seems surprised to see him. Her mouth gapes a little, and her blue eyes are wide. A pink blush flushes her cheeks, but she does not rise from her seat to stand with the rest of her party. Instead she sinks back further into the chair and turns her beautiful eyes to the floor. Perhaps she hadn’t thought to see him either.

But then this is how it always is for them. Always together, surrounded by enemies. His or hers or both. They have never known peace. Will never know peace, most like. He grips the pommel of his sword tightly as he sits down, something to tie him down while he faces the coming storm.

His brother is seated to their right. Ned Stark’s bastard to their left. The Targaryen girl is yet to arrive, and when Cersei makes a point to comment on the rudeness of the delay, Jaime’s eyes are drawn back to Brienne like filings to a magnet. She looks strangely small, engulfed as she is by one of those godsawful cloaks favoured by the Starks. The nights in King’s Landing are getting colder; the wind that blows from the north frighteningly chilly, but he has not found it quite cold enough for fur. 

(Later that night, when he curls in against himself, sleeping under a bush like the hedge knight he is dressed as, he will remember thinking that strange. That he should have noticed something off then.)

But it is an easy thing to overlook, given the circumstances. Tarth is in the south, or at least further south than King’s Landing. Perhaps she feels the cold more than others. He chalks it up as yet another mystery about her he will never solve, along with why she is here in Sansa Stark’s place and how she ever came to care for someone such as him before he realises his sister is watching him. Watching him watch her. 

And it is all forgotten the instant the dragon appears. Screeching first, sending him stumbling to his feet to spot the thing before it was _there_ , so monstrously large and terrifying and deadly as it crashes into the ruined walls of the Dragonpit with the Targaryen girl on its back. And not one this time, but two. _Two_. 

How could they possibly win against them?

Daenerys Targaryen dismounts her beast and it takes off again, its vast wings displacing the air around them in such a fierce hurricane he finds it hard to keep his footing. The others, too, struggle against the wind, and he feels a spark of worry for Tyrion, but he seems to have found an ally in Jorah Mormont, who stands his ground and protects his brother from the worst of the gale. Only Cersei and Brienne had remained seated. 

(Another clue he had been too stupid to see.)

In the distance the dragons screech again; his heart hammers in his chest.

Daenerys finally ascends the steps and takes her seat, and the negotiations begin.

And then they end. Far quicker than anyone expected. With her final words said, Cersei strides off, back towards the city, leaving the other King and Queen and their advisors to clean up the mess the Hound has made of the wight. The Mountain escorts his queen, Qyburn trails behind them both, and in the middle of it all the King in the North looks lost. If he were a better man Jaime might feel sorry for the boy, thrust as he is into this mess without any hope of success, but he has his own problems.

He has to follow his sister. 

Jaime stands and begins to walk, eyes cast down to see only the ground before his feet, lest Tyrion or someone else catch his eye. He cannot face them, and does not want to think any further on why that might be. Better just to follow Cersei. It is what he always does, after all.

But then.

“Ser Jaime,” she calls out to him, and stands. Follows behind him half a pace as he walks away from it all. 

He hasn’t heard her voice since… He is always surprised by how deep it is, the strange way it trembles when she aims for confidence. 

“It is good to see you,” he forces out. Lannisters lie, and he is among the best of them. He knows his next words will hurt, so in his shame he doesn’t look at her as he says his next, “I imagine the next time will be across the battlefield.”

He can hear it land. Hear the way her breath hitches. But for all he is a liar, she is a warrior, and she does not yield so easily. “We both saw what just happened. We both saw that… thing.”

“Yes, and I’m not looking forward to seeing more of them,” he sighs, “But I am loyal to the queen and you are loyal to Sansa and her dolt brother.”

She grabs him by the elbow guard and forces him to face her. “Oh fuck loyalty,” she says.

“Fuck loyalty?” He is too shocked to do anything but look at her.

Brienne’s face is flushed a deep red, and she is panting slightly, though they have not walked far. At the edge of her hairline he can see a sheen of sweat. Is she ill? Why in god’s name would Jon Snow allow her to attend the meeting if she is unwell? Surely he would have expected an ambush, would have known he should only bring able fighting men to such a summit. He trails his eyes over the rest of her out of habit.

And that is when he sees.

She is not in his armour. The blue armour he had had made for her. That he had gifted her with before he sent her off, alone, to find Sansa and Arya Stark. Instead she wears the boiled leather of the north. It is a strange thing to feel betrayed over something such as that. Perhaps it was damaged, or was too much of a burden for her to carry while she travelled here from Winterfell on such short notice. Or perhaps the Starks made her cast off all signs of her Lannister loyalties.

But the boiled leather does not seem to fit.

And Oathkeeper remains strapped at her hip, though her sword belt sits much lower than he’s ever seen it. On her hip, rather than around her waist, because she is positively bulging around the middle.

It is almost as if…

His heart skips a beat. He looks up, catches her eye. She looks frightened, yet determined. _It’s true_ , she says, without words. Then she speaks. “This goes beyond houses and honour and oaths.” She hitches another breath, and her left hand comes up to press against the side of her belly. Her clearly pregnant belly. “Talk to the queen.”

His mind works too quickly. Thinking back. Calculating. _Gods_. And _Cersei_. He looks over his shoulder and sees her standing there, watching him. Watching her. For a sharp second he is reminded of the bear pit, of standing between Brienne and some terrible fate. But that had just been a beast. A beast that was nothing compared to his sister.

He turns back to Brienne. Knows what he must do, what he has always had to do. “And tell her what?” he says, and he leaves. He does not look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Response to an anon prompt on tumblr. "one night stand and falling pregnant au", so you can probably figure out where the rest is going...


	2. Riverrun

“All right,” he says, and Brienne cannot believe it. She had hoped he would see reason, that he would do the just thing and honour his oath to Lady Catelyn, however far removed it was at this point. But for all her hope she had not expected he would agree so easily. He had never been so amenable before. When he had picked a fight with her, mere minutes earlier, that had made sense, no matter how infuriating it had been. But it was familiar at least.

Jaime rounds the table and comes to stand before her and she stands a little taller. How could she forget they are of a height? That he can look her in the eye so easily? In her memories she is always looking up at him. "You can try to talk some sense into the old goat. He won’t listen, but his men might. Not everyone wants to die for someone else’s home.”

His tone is still a little combative, but there is something about it that is off. He is frustrated, yes, but not with her. Or perhaps it is. She finds him so hard to read sometimes, like a familiar tale scribed in an unfamiliar language.

Still, he has promised her a chance, which is more than she’d expected. Without Ser Jaime’s support she would have had no hope of securing the support of Ser Brydnen and the Tully forces. “I need your word. If I persuade him to abandon the castle, you’ll grant us safe passage north.” She presses him for his promise out of habit—many men have promised her things only to reveal their treachery—before swiftly realising the gesture might make him think she does not trust him. Because she does. Trust him.

But he does not seem at all hurt by her lack of faith. He nods once, twice, and his lips twitch with the edge of a smile as he says, “You have my word. You have until nightfall.”

It’s the smile that freezes her, somewhere tight inside. It is suddenly too much to keep looking at him—she has looked too long, people surely do not look at each other for so long—and she looks to the floor. Spies decorative leather sword belt he had commissioned for her. Starbursts and Lions.

His sword at her hip. Oathkeeper.

She had forgotten, in the shock of seeing him again, why he had agreed to see her. _Tell Ser Jaime I have his sword._ His priceless Valyrian sword. She fumbles with the leather straps, forcing her clumsy, gloved fingers to work the buckle, and if it weren’t for the heft of the sword and scabbard in her hand, he might see that she shakes as she holds it out.

“You gave it to me for a purpose. I have achieved that purpose,” she says, hating that she sounds so rehearsed, but at least, by some blessing from the gods, her voice remains calm.

Though he steps closer, he does not take the sword from her. He regards her with a queer look, his eyebrows working through some emotion she cannot recognise, though his green eyes are light and sincere. His voice is softer and more true than anything she’s ever heard. “It’s yours. It will always be yours.”

At once Oathkeeper is heavier in her grip, weighty with all that is between them. The trust, the faith, their history… It is too much, and it is embarrassing. She does not know what to say to that. To thank him would surely be avaricious, but to say anything else is impossible.

It is overwhelming, though she knows not why. She has never been able to explain it. It is trust, surely she trusts him, and this longing she feels is surely just for the impossible sense of safety she feels when he is nearby. She knows she shouldn’t. Feel safe with him, that is. No one else understands. No one else could understand. Not Sansa, not Pod. No one.

She cannot stand it a minute longer, and turns to leave, though part of her screams, _screams_ to stay close to him. To have this moment, close, a little longer. In the Riverlands together once more. Enemies still, yet so much more than that.

“One last thing Ser Jaime.” She grips Oathkeeper tightly to her chest and spins back around, surprised to find that he has followed her more closely than she expected. He is less than an arm’s breadth away. 

“Yes, Lady Brienne.” The smile is back. Her heart hammers in her chest.

“Should I fail to persuade the Blackfish to surrender, and if you attack the castle… Honour compels me to fight for Sansa’s kin.”

“Of course it does.”

But he doesn’t understand. He has agreed too readily. He is too close.

“To fight you,” she forces out. Without his hand and his sword, his priceless sword—no, her sword—he could never hope to match her. They had fought once before, many years ago now, but the thought of a rematch fills her with dread. It would surely kill her.

For a moment he says nothing. The lean of his body, the tilt of his chin… something about it makes her worry he will step closer still, until he would have to be touching her. A ridiculous notion. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” he says, so calmly it makes her heart clench. Her throat tightens. It is time to leave, before she shames herself irreparably. She turns to leave for the last time, when the sky flashes with a bolt of lightning and an instantaneous crack of thunder breaks the air. A moment later the heavens open, and with a deluge so heavy she hesitates to leave the shelter of the tent.

Lightning cracks again, hitting tall pine on a hill in the distance and she steps backwards instinctively, bumping into Ser Jaime, who catches her gently, gold hand knocking loudly against her armour.

“Perhaps you should wait ‘til the rain clears,” he says, breath tickling the skin beneath her ear, then steps backwards, his left hand coming up to tug her by the elbow.

Outside the tent, soldiers scramble to find shelter from the sudden storm. A little further away she sees Pod jogging behind Bronn, arms held above his head in a futile attempt to protect his face from the water. 

She nods. “Perhaps I should.” 

He invites her to sit and, in the habit of all Lannisters, pours her a glass of wine. “Tell me more of your journey. I should like to hear it.”

She can leave when the rain eases.

Except.

It doesn’t ease.

If anything, it intensifies. 

Brienne has not seen a storm like it, not since she left home, left the Stormlands. But she'd much rather be stuck here where it's warm and dry than out in the open. There is food here, too: cold cuts and fresh bread leftover from his midday meal, though it has been sitting out long enough for it to have become a little stale.

She eats it anyway. It is far better fare than she and Pod had eaten on their journey south, and the wine is very good. It is the one truly pleasant thing she can say about the Lannisters as a whole: they appreciate good wine.

At some point the rain eases, though it doesn’t cease completely, and one of his captains enters the tent to deliver his report.

“The Freys say we are overdue for a storm such as this,” the man says. “It’s like to last all night and leave us knee-deep in mud. We won’t be able to move the siege towers close enough until some of the water has drained.”

Jaime considers the new information, shifting easily from her dinner companion to battle commander. “Fine. We’ll meet again in the morning to reassess our position.” Then he waves the captain out and, seeing that Brienne’s cup is almost empty, he reaches for the flagon and refills both their goblets. His good manners never ceased to surprise her. “It seems you shall have to wait until tomorrow to convince the Blackfish to withdraw and follow you North.”

She nods. “I should find Pod,” she says, and makes to stand, but before she can he is reaching across the table to grab her hand.

“No. Not yet,” he says in a rush.

“We will need to find a place to camp before it is too dark,” she says, confused.

“So stay here. You will be perfectly safe.”

Safe. There it was again. _Safe_. It gives her pause.

He continues on. “I doubt your tent will be able to withstand this weather for long, and you never liked sleeping in the rain.”

No one liked sleeping in the rain, surely. And it was colder now than it had ever been when they had last traipsed through the Riverlands and had often found themselves without shelter for the night. “I cannot ask this of you, ser. It would not be proper. I am for the Starks.”

But he waves away that excuse in much the same way he had dismissed his captain minutes earlier. “What is the point of being commander if people question me for offering a friend a safe place to spend the night? You may have my tent. I will sleep elsewhere.”

“What about Pod?”

“I’m sure Bronn will look after the boy. They are most likely getting drunk right now and telling tall tales about my little brother.”

After that, he simply refuses every attempt on her part to turn down his hospitality. It’s amazing to realise she’d forgotten how stubborn he could be. She knows she could force his hand—she is stubborn too—but finds she does not want to. She likes this, spending quiet hours with… with a friend. When he pushes a little bowl of cherries her way, she plucks one to eat with a smile.

As they eat, they each share tales of their time apart. She worries he will be bored by her account; she’d never had a way with words, could not embellish and colour her stories to entertain. Nonetheless, much to her surprise, he seems enraptured by her every word. His clear eagerness to hear about her journey, combined with the easy drinkability of the wine, loosens her tongue and she finds herself sharing more than she’d ever shared with him before. 

Stories of her childhood. Of her father. Of her. More than she’s shared with anyone. 

When she realises that, she’s surprised to note that it doesn’t scare her. The idea of baring herself to someone else had always seemed an impossible, terrifying thing. To be so vulnerable, and allow another to see that vulnerability.

With Jaime it does not feel like vulnerability. It feels like trust.

Because he has shared things with her, too. Trusted her. 

Believed in her.

Though the rain eases some, it still comes down fiercely—the heavy clouds alter the colour of the sky so drastically it is difficult to measure the passing of time. So the sun has long set when she realises how late it truly is; only the candles, burned low in the long night, alert her to the time.

It is then when she realises just how many flagons of wine they have finished between the two of them. Her head feels as light as her limbs feel heavy, and yet she is relaxed in a way she has not felt in years. She feels the yawn deep in her throat, and it is on her, jaw-cracking and shivery before she has the chance to cover her mouth.

Jaime smiles that smile at her again. The one she does not understand, even as it warms her inside. “It is late. You should rest,” he says, then stands and offers her his hand. She takes it and he pulls her up, her armour creaking too loudly in the peace of the rainy night.

“Thank you for the food, ser,” she says.

“Not the wine?” His playful tone excites a fluttering in her tummy, even as she yawns again.

“The wine too,” she agrees, and he leads her away from the desk to the small sleeping area set up behind the partition, having not yet let go of her hand. His palm is warm in hers. His thumb idly strokes the backs of her fingers.

The bed is a little larger than a typical camp bed, befitting his stature within the camp, though it is not as ostentatious as the one Renly had kept in his tent. It is not her featherbed in Winterfell, but it will surely be more comfortable than her bedroll on the ground in the mud.

“It is not much,” he says, dropping her hand, “but if you need anything I can send for it. A bath? Like old times?”

She cannot help but laugh. “This will be fine,” she says, and sets Oathkeeper to rest on the small table to the side. 

“I suppose any woman who can sleep upright in plate armour will have no trouble getting to sleep here.” He raps his knuckles against her metal breastplate to punctuate his joke, but it is enough to remind her that she _is_ still armoured. Yes, she has slept in her armour before, and very likely would again… But with a bed this nice it seems a waste. And the gods only knew where Pod would be at this point, let alone whether Bronn would have let him stay sober enough for him to help her out of it all.

She looks up at Jaime, feeling uncommonly brave. “Could you—” 

“Do you need help removing your armour?” he asks.

For a moment, there is nothing but air between them. Heavier than any rain outside. Brighter than any flame.

After an eternity—or a heartbeat—she nods. He reaches for her buckles.

It’s strange. Pod has helped her with her armour every night for years, yet the act has never felt more intimate. Each brush of his fingers is like a burn, the hot whisper of his breath on her cheek, her neck, sends a shiver across her skin like ripples radiating across a pool of water.

He is careful with her, so careful. Almost reverent. It makes it hard to breathe until he helps her lift her chestplate up and over her head.

She catches his eye once it is set down beside the bed. “Who will help you with your armour?” she asks, not truly believing that she was the one to speak. 

After some time, he says, “A squire.”

“I can do it.” It seems only right to offer to help in return. He stills, searches her face, but finally he nods his assent. So when they have removed all of her amour, she reaches for the buckles on his.

Later, she tries to pinpoint the moment everything changes. The moment she could have turned away, turned her back. Prevented everything that was to come. Even when she wasn’t sure that that was what she wanted.

But whenever it is, by the time she helps him remove his golden hand, holds his empty wrist in her hands and presses an impulsive kiss against his scars, then it is too late. It is too late when he helps her pull off her gambeson, and the tunic underneath, and touches his lips to the parallel scars that hatch across her clavicle. Trails his lips up her neck, along her cheek, to claim her lips with a gasp.

When they are naked before one another for the second time, when he guides her into his bed. When they fall asleep in each other’s arms, content in a way she’d never been before. Even when they dress and part the following morning, as though nothing had happened. Only they would know.

It was too late, months later, when she realised _she_ was late. For that was what the maester said. _Too late_. She was too late to do anything about it without endangering herself as well.

And it is much too late when she next sees him walking towards her across the Dragonpit, as always at his sister’s side. Too late to do anything about the child that moves within her even now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a note about timelines: if Gendry can run an ultramarathon in 20 minutes and a raven can get a message from The Wall to Dragonstone at warp speed, then I can do whatever I like with timelines. Don't even @ me about it.


	3. Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime arrives in Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I increased the chapter count by one and I'm just as mad about it as you are. Almost as mad as the fact that I had to figure out a timeline for this *waves lazily* _thing_.

He'd expected chains. He'd expected them the moment the Starks realised _he_ was the most recent refugee to ride into the keep. They would take away his horse, his golden hand, his dignity if they could manage it, and throw him in their dungeons. But there is nothing like that.

Oh there is hostility, certainly. They strip him of his weapons and armour the moment Bran Stark raises the alarm and it is done with snide remarks and mockery—where is your army, Lord Lannister? You fight many squires with that hand?—he'd expected that much and is almost relieved to know he hadn't misjudged his situation _that_ badly.

But no chains. No dungeon. He is held for a time in a moderately respectable antechamber off the edge of the great hall while they gather his executioners together. There are worse places to be, all things considered. He is warm for the first time in weeks, and these northerners will make it quick; they won’t draw it out into a spectacle the way they do in the south.

He just… He just hopes he can see her, before the end. He doesn’t want her to see him. Better she believe he abandoned her. Better she believe in the man he truly is, rather than the one she thought him to be. It would hurt her, to see him die. And he doesn’t want to hurt her.

Not when he has…

He has hurt her enough.

Jaime waits there for hours, long enough that he is able to sleep a little, lying on the bench seat, the only furniture in the room, with his cloak bunched up beneath his head as a makeshift pillow. How long he sleeps for, he cannot say. Sunlight does not behave the way he expects, up here, and it is worse in winter, but it cannot be long. Whatever rest he manages is poor, in any case, and it is only the little puddle of drool darkening the fabric beneath his head that tells him he truly slept.

He is woken by the entrance of Daenerys’s guards, two of the sleek disciplined Unsullied, not the barbaric Dothraki he had faced upon the goldroad. Still, one kicks the bench near his feet, and he rises with an indignant grunt, but doesn’t protest.

“Stand,” the nearest one without the helmet commands him, and for once he does as he is told. He could not fight them off if he wanted to: all he has left is his weariness and his golden hand, neither of which will help him much against a trained mercenary.

“Come,” the same man says, and leads the way out of the room and down the corridor. The second one follows closely behind. Perhaps once he would have resisted their escort. When he was a younger man, more whole. But today he simply does as he is bid. They lead him through another door, this one to the great hall itself, which is now packed to the rafters with northern soldiers, more Unsullied, Dothraki and in the very centre, three tables set out in horseshoe formation, where the lords of the North are already sitting. His guards escort him to the centre of the room, and then separate; the helmeted one pacing backwards to join the rest of the soldiers, and the other, clearly the commander of the force, moves to the edge of the head table.

Daenerys Targaryen sits in the Lord’s chair, with Jon Snow on her left and with a young red-headed woman on her right. It has been years since he has seen Sansa Stark in the flesh, and seeing her grown from a dewy child into the formidable woman before him has him feeling acutely aware of his age. Tyrion stands to the side, looking more anxious than Jaime ever saw him during his own murder trial.

But the gods themselves could have been sitting in place to judge him and he would not have cared a whit more. Because she is there, on his left, only feet away. It takes every ounce of willpower he has not to look at her; if he did, he would not be able to tear his eyes away. And that would surely mean his death. Or hers. And that would be unacceptable.

The room is silent. All he can hear is his own breaths, steadier than they should be. But he will not speak. Not if he stands here for a thousand years.

Finally, without standing, the queen begins to speak, her voice almost shivering with the effort of containing her anger. “When I was a child, my brother would tell me a bedtime story, about the man who murdered our father. Who stabbed him in the back, and cut his throat. Who sat on the iron throne and watched as his blood poured onto the floor. He told me other stories as well, about all the things we would do to that man, once we took back the seven kingdoms and had him in our grasp.”

He understands her anger, he does. Who else but he would be the villain in her story? The villain in so many stories. It is too late, now, to explain himself. To justify his actions. Here, in his position, it would seem a lie, would look like a desperate attempt to save his neck. The truth will not save him now. It will have to be enough that one person knows. That she knows him.

Jaime waits. He has always performed well under pressure. He will not break for them.

Daenerys continues on, eyes fiery. “Your sister pledged to send an army.”

“She did.” His voice is calm. 

It infuriates her more, every emotion clear to read on her face, and for the first time, beneath her pretty features, he can see she takes after her father. “I don’t see an army. I see one man. With one hand. It appears your sister lied to me.”

“She lied to me as well,” he says smoothly, embracing their common ground. It is not much, but it is what Tyrion would do and perhaps it will grant him a quicker death. “She never had any intention of sending her army north. She has Euron Greyjoy’s fleet and twenty thousand fresh troops. The Golden Company from Essos, bought and paid for. Even if we defeat the dead, she’ll have more than enough to destroy the survivors.”

“We?” she asks, scepticism plain for all to hear.

“I promised to fight for the living,” he says, more quickly than he should; he swallows and stands a little taller. “I intend to keep that promise.”

To the side, Tyrion steps forward, practically vibrating with his nerves. “Your grace, I know my brother.”

Daenerys snaps, “Like you knew your sister?”

Jaime feels a warm flush of protective concern for his brother then, when Tyrion hesitates. A habit born of decades of brotherly love—even patricide could not kill the instinct to shield him from the judgement of others. But it is Tyrion’s turn to protect _him._ He does so in typical Tyrion fashion. “He came here alone, knowing full well how he’d be received. Why would he do that if he weren’t telling the truth?”

“Perhaps he trusts his little brother to defend him, right up to the moment he slits my throat,” Daenerys says, so fiercely that Tyrion steps back, defeated by his queen’s temper.

“You’re right,” Sansa says, and there is a ripple of surprise through the room. “We can’t trust him. He attacked my father in the streets. He tried to destroy my house and my family the same as he did yours.”

It is _that,_ her naivete, that goads him to speak without thought.

“You want me to apologise? I won’t. We were at war. Everything I did, I did for my house and my family, and I’d do it all again.”

“The things we do for love.”

Bran Stark repeating his own damned words back at him, emotionless and clear, scares him to his core. He will tell his story, now, and that will be it all. What he’d done to the boy was indefensible. They will march him straight from the hall out to the gallows or to the chopping block, or perhaps Jon Snow would save them all the trouble and simply run him through and let his blood soak the stones beneath their feet. He tears his eyes away from the boy, and tries to get his beating heart back under control.

“So why have you abandoned your house and family now?” Daenerys asks. The most important question.

“Because this goes beyond loyalty.” He almost turns, an involuntary shift; his conscience taking control of his muscles. All he sees is her white hand, pressing down forcefully against the table, before he turns back. “This is about survival.”

Perhaps that was the right answer, finally. It’s the first one he’s given that hasn’t seemed to enrage the dragon queen any further. Yet he’s not idiotic enough to think that means he’s any safer. He’s probably just delayed his death for a minute or two.

A chair creaks heavily, startling them all. It takes every ounce of strength he has not to turn to watch her as she strides purposefully to stand in front of him, tall and proud and fearless. “You don’t know me well, your grace. But I know Ser Jaime.” 

From his position behind her he cannot look on her the way he truly wants to; he wants to catalogue every inch of her, knowing this is likely the last time he will ever get the chance. But to do so would damn her and her child to his fate, and _that_ he cannot have. He’d rather slit his own throat. So he tears his eyes away.

Brienne sees nothing of this. She does not look back at him, remains standing between him and his fate, as he’d once stood between her and the bear. It’s just as foolish. “He is a man of honour. I was his captor once, but when we were both taken prisoner and the men holding us tried to force themselves on me, Ser Jaime defended me. And lost his hand because of it.” She speaks about him to the queen with a confidence he has never seen in her. He doesn’t know what to think. Doesn’t know how to breathe. 

She turns and addresses Sansa now. “Without him, my lady, you would not be alive. He armed me, armoured me, and sent me to find you and bring you home, because he’d sworn an oath to your mother.”

“You vouch for him?” Sansa asks, frosted snow in contrast to the dragon queen.

“I do.” Brienne's voice doesn’t waver. 

The floor feels unstable beneath his feet. Any moment now a crevasse will split the foundations of the castle and swallow him up into the depths of hell.

Sansa’s face gives nothing away. “You would fight beside him?” She will fight? Of course she will fight. Of course.

As if in confirmation, she stands taller, still. A hero from the stories of old. They will tell tales of her for centuries to come. “I would.”

Sansa glances between the two of them, a calculating look worthy of Cersei. But it is the way her eyes dart down Brienne’s body that truly paralyses him. She catches his gaze and her lips twitch, more damning than any death sentence. _She knows_. 

Eventually Sansa says to Brienne, “I trust you with my life.” From here he can see Brienne has stilled--perhaps she is struggling to breathe too. Sansa continues on, “If you trust him with yours, we shall let him stay.”

It is as though a physical weight has been lifted from his chest, some invisible giant wrapping his hands around him, squeezing him until he was like to pop, until it was suddenly felled. Gone. He could breathe again, but the freedom itself left him lightheaded, and for half a heartbeat he worried he would faint away there in the middle of the hall.

His relief was enough that he didn’t even attend to the rest of the trial, not the way he should. Perhaps Daenerys said something; on pain of death he could not have recalled it for all the world. All he could see was the soft blonde curls at the base of Brienne’s head where they twisted into her neck to be buried in her furs. 

He should have made the effort to stay aware. Before he can reach for her, thank her, beg her forgiveness, ask her any of the thousand questions that had been haunting his every step to this godforsaken castle, Daenerys’ Unsullied guard is shoving Widow’s Wail back at him and Brienne is walking away, following Sansa from the room. Away from him. He takes a step after her, just the one, before he comes about enough to remember where he is. In the north. In Winterfell. Surrounded by people who despise him. 

So he stops. He lets her go. This is not the time for them, not now.

But he hopes it will be soon. The dead are coming, and the living likely do not have long until they arrive. He came north for her, because she told him it was the right thing to do, and because she _didn’t_ tell him to do it for her. 

There was no way he could have done anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, the two before, and the final one to come are dedicated to my brother from another mother (also another father) [angel_deux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angel_deux/pseuds/angel_deux), because it is her birthday this week and even if it wasn't she's just the best.


	4. The Room

It has been a long day, a stressful day, and it is with no small degree of relief that Brienne falls into bed a little earlier than she should. 

She is exhausted. It’s not just her body, which has not felt well-rested in months, no this is different. This is a bone-deep weariness in her soul. She is not made for this, for any of it. For pregnancy, for political intrigue. It is not what she is for. And there is not time enough for it, besides. The dead are coming. The dead will be here any day. Soon enough she and all the rest of Winterfell will most likely be simply more bodies in the Night King’s forces.

But it is hard to think of any of that now. _He_ had come. Is here. In Winterfell.

She had hoped he would. Hoped, but not expected. Even when Cersei had pledged a force for the cause, she had not thought he would number among them. Her brother, her lover, was too valuable; she would surely not let him far from her side.

For him to arrive, less than a week after she and Pod returned, she doesn’t know what to think of it. Surely he knew it would be nothing short of walking into the dragon’s maw if he came north without his army at his back. Frankly she was thankful that Pod had told her of his arrival, frantically whispered to her when he’d caught her on the battlements. 

If she’d entered the great hall without an adequate warning of what she’d find there... She’d been struck down dizzy on several occasions this past month, with the worst of the bouts finally prompting Lady Sansa to push her to rest. But seeing him standing there? A little worse for wear from the journey, older and greyer than he’d ever been, though alive nonetheless—even with the warning it had almost felled her. 

But he is safe now. For a day or so at least. That she could do for him. _Had_ done for him. Standing before so many people, looking as she did, weary, swollen, a shadow of the warrior she had built herself to be, all while feeling their looks of judgement—it had been hard. But she would endure the gaze of hundreds, thousands, if it meant his life. He had saved her, so many times, in so many ways. Protected her, even when there was no gain in it. Simply because it was the right thing to do.

What wasn’t the right thing to do was what she’d done after.

She’d escaped. Like some rat or roach scurrying beneath the floorboards, hiding away from the light. Avoided him like a coward. It had been a long day, fraught and tremulous; she’d never been so exhausted. It wasn’t just him she was avoiding, but the rest of them as well. Lady Sansa and her polite, probing questions. Ser Davos and his paternal advice. She’d even caught the Hound staring at her with smug, knowing eyes, and she could bear it no longer and returned to her room.

It was a well appointed space, most likely selected for her by Lady Sansa for its large fireplace and sizable bed. The cold of the north had been a challenge for Brienne at first, but she has become accustomed to it, overtime. Or perhaps it is one of the few positives brought on by this pregnancy: she runs hotter now, too hot sometimes.

Still, she lies abed and tries to chase the sleep she knows she needs, though it eludes her once more, mind too busy with the events of the day. She’d much rather be out in the yard, perhaps overseeing Pod as he trains the newly arrived, able-bodied men. That would clear her mind of all this, and tire her out in such a way that her body would have no choice but to sleep when her head hit the pillow, instead of this restless, exhausting energy she is left with.

 _Truly_ , she’d rather be training the recruits herself, but that hasn’t been an option for some time. When Sansa had pushed her to give up some of her responsibilities so that she could better look after her own health, she had been forced to give it up, lest she be forced to give her _own_ sword up, too. _That_ is not an option. The army of the dead are marching, and she will fight them, of that there was no question. Perhaps she will fall, or something will happen to the child. But in any case they are likely to die, and she’d rather die with a sword in her hand than curled up amongst the other women and children in the crypts.

Some had tried to persuade her otherwise. 

Ser Davos seemed to fashion himself her father, and in the absence of her own, had told her there was no shame in taking a position of command, as he had done for his last king, then after for Jon Snow. But she had no head for that kind of strategy, and she had politely rejected the suggestion.

Later, Lord Royce had openly scoffed at her in a strategy meeting, speculating pompously whether the armourers would be able to make a chestplate ample enough to shield her girth. Fortunately, Lady Sansa had leapt to her defence by pointing out that if the blacksmiths could forge _him_ something large enough to protect _his_ bulk, then surely they would be able to fashion something suitable for her personal guard.

It was obvious that Sansa felt conflicted about Brienne’s condition, but to her credit she remained unfailing in her support. Brienne told Sansa her pregnancy would not get in the way of her duties; Sansa had believed her. Brienne said she wanted to fight; Sansa would let her fight. 

Brienne trusts Jaime Lannister with her life. Sansa trusts her in return.

If Sansa has guessed he is the father of Brienne’s child, she has kept it to herself, perhaps not wanting to truly know the answer. Brienne certainly hasn’t told anyone, not even Pod, though if anyone knew the truth it would be him. But his loyalty to her outweighs anything else, and for that she was grateful. When she said she wished to train, he didn’t try to cajole her into doing something else. He trusted she knew her limits. He has been more than just a good squire to her, of late. He has been a good friend.

The sun has not quite set when the knock comes at the door. 

It is loud enough to frighten her a little, though she knows there is nothing truly to be frightened of. _A wight will not knock so politely_. It is just Pod, bringing her some supper.

She pushes back the blankets and shuffles to the door, not quite exhausted or incapacitated enough to resort to calling out for him to enter.

But it is not Pod.

Jaime stands there. Wearing the same clothes as earlier, though he looks a little cleaner. Looks a little bit more well-rested. Probably his brother’s doing.

“Ser Jaime,” she says, unable to hide her surprise.

“Lady Brienne.” He bows his head a fraction. She can see him take note of her robe, belt drawn tightly closed over her distended belly, and it is as though he physically has to force himself to look back up at her face. She is glad she still has the doorknob gripped in her hand to ground her, else she might float away from sheer humiliation.

“May I come in?” he asks.

Words have never been her strength, have never come easily to her, the way they do for others. What is one supposed to say when faced with a situation such as this? What is the proper way of addressing the father of her child, the only person she had ever slept with, the man she had only hours ago saved from certain death by dragon fire?

But she knows she cannot avoid this conversation forever. No matter how ill prepared for it she is, she is not a coward. So she steps back and opens the door wider to admit him, and only glances down the hallway in each direction to check for prying eyes. Not that there is much point in trying to preserve her reputation. That ship had sailed months ago.

He enters, and she closes the door behind him, the click of the lock an almost deafening noise. She stays by the door, feeling desperately out of her element as she watches him survey her space. Still, it gives her a chance to look at him the way she hadn’t been able to earlier, at his trial. He still looks tired, a little skinnier and she is not sure whether she likes the beard that he has grown while he travelled; he had had a beard when they had first met, and she cannot help but be reminded of that horrible time in both their lives. Now it is more grey than gold, though it is neatly trimmed at least. 

“Are you well?” he asks and it is then she realises he has been looking her over too. 

She feels her cheeks warm, and knows she is blushing, but she nods, in answer to his question. Yes she is well, all things considered.

“I did not interrupt you?”

Brienne shakes her head. 

He frowns. “Have you lost your tongue, somewhere between here and the great hall?”

She chokes out a “No!” knowing that her flush is likely darker than it has ever been. 

“Then why are you… like this?” He waves his hand at her face. As if on queue, she feels her face warm further. She is probably as red as his sigil, but there is nothing for it now.

“I don’t know what to say,” she admits, deciding on the truth, even if it might be blunt. There is no point in pretending delicacy anymore. 

“Is that why you did not tell me about the child?” He doesn’t seem angry, which is something of a comfort. She would have understood if he was; Cersei had never allowed him to be a father to his children, and though he had never said it, Brienne suspected it had hurt him more than he’d ever let on.

But still, she cannot read his face now. Instead he has made himself blank, and it makes her feel worse that he hides himself so from her. It makes her feel as though she has hurt him, and she has, she knows it. It is yet another betrayal from someone he thought he could trust.

The thought wearies her more, and in her exhaustion she is unable to ignore the fatigue of her body: her sore, swollen feet, her distended stomach. She sits down at her small table as she answers, “I could not think of a way,” she says. “It was.. It was some time after Riverrun, once I’d returned here that I realised the condition I was in, and by then it was months too late for me to do anything about it. Then I thought I could write to you, but I do not know anyone I would have trusted to deliver you a message other than Pod, and I could not send him back to King’s Landing with such news.”

Jaime nods, pulls back the chair across from her to sit down too. His face is still expressionless, but he is listening. Hanging on her every word.

She continues on, “When Lady Sansa received her invitation to return to King’s Landing, she sent me in her stead.”

“Does she know?”

“I never told her and she never asked,” Brienne says, and within her the babe shifts, jabbing her from the inside, as though it knows she is not being as honest as she should. She grimaces. “But yes, she knows.”

Jaime lets out a breath, slowly hissed through his teeth as he sits back in the chair,.She wishes she were better with faces, had the talent to read expressions the way that she could read an opponent wielding a sword. Sometimes, in a fight, it is almost as though she can read thoughts, plainly revealed through the twitches of muscle, the flick of an eye. 

If she could only tell what he is thinking. If only he would tell her.

“I am sorry,” she says, after some time, unable to stand the silence anymore. “I should have found a way to tell you.”

Jaime frowns, and rubs a hand across his face as though he has just woken up from some terrible dream. “If anyone needs to apologise, it is me. I should not have… I knew better than to...”

It is like something invisible has got her by the throat to squeeze. Of course he would regret it. She nods. “Ser Jaime, there is no expectation on my part, that you—”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says swiftly, leaning forward to take her hand. She tries to snatch it away, but he holds fast, and squeezes it tightly. “I don’t regret you, Brienne. There are many things I regret, things I have done, things I haven’t, but what we did was not one of them.”

“Then why—”

“It is my fault that you find yourself in this condition. I know how to prevent this, and we were at war when we met then. I should have been more responsible, but I wasn’t. I didn’t think. I dishonoured you. I’m sorry.” 

His expression is easy enough to read now: he is ashamed. That hurts her even more. She reaches across to cover his hand with hers. “Jaime. You did not dishonour me.”

“I did. My dishonour is so contagious that I would drag the most honourable woman in the world down into the mud with me.”

“You came north because it was the honourable thing to do. You kept your word.”

“I came north for you.”

She shakes her head. It is what he is supposed to say to the woman bearing his child. 

“I did not ask you to do that.”

“No,” he agrees. “You did not ask.”

He says it with such certainty that she is lost for words once more. Still she holds his hand in hers. An anchor in a turbulent storm. Brienne had not asked him to come, but he had followed her anyway. Just like he had at Harrenhal. She had not begged him to stay then, knowing that when he left, she would surely die there, but that he would honour his oath to Lady Catelyn. She’d trusted in that, but he had come for her anyway, jumping unarmed between her and the bear. He had taken Riverrun without bloodshed, had allowed her to enter the castle to try and convince the Blackfish to turn his army north. She knew that if she’d been successful in that endeavour, that he would have granted them all safe passage, Cersei be damned. And she trusted that he would keep his promise to fight against the Night King, and he had kept that promise too.

Now this...

“Jaime,” she says softly, “Your honour is not tied to me. I doubt we will live much longer, but in any case if we do succeed and win, I release you from any obligation you may think there is between us. You do not need to stay here, or stay near me. I do not need it. I have managed by myself for long enough.”

“What if I want to be near you?” he asks. She blinks, because it seems it is all she can do. “What if I want to be tied to you? Fight by your side?”

“Fight?”

He smiles fondly. “I doubt you would let such a thing as a babe stop you from joining this fight.”

“You would not ask me to stay in the crypts with the other women?”

He lifts his golden hand and waves it at her. “Would you make _me_ stay down there?”

“No,” she says.

He leans forward again. His knees knock against hers beneath the table. “I would fight by your side, if you would have me.”

“It would—it would be an honour, ser.” She swallows, throat tight again, though her heart has swelled large in her chest. It excites the child, who moves within her with more strength than she’s felt in some time. What happens next is instinct. She takes Jaime’s hand and tugs him forward, slipping it beneath the robe to press against her stomach where the babe kicks most vigourously. 

Brienne watches his face as he realises what it is he can feel, the wonder, the awe, the terror, and it is touching. He would be a good father, if someone would let him.

“Is that?” he breathes. She nods, and she feels his thumb brush back and forth across her skin.

“I may not need you to stay,” she says, cautiously, drawing on her courage once more. “But I would like it if you did stay. With me.”

He looks up at her then, and smiles. She smiles at him in return.

He moves his hand from her belly to cup the back of her neck, drawing her closer still, until their foreheads are almost touching. “May I kiss you?” he asks. Her heart flutters. The babe twists inside her.

“Yes,” she says, and he does. It is sweeter than any of their other kisses, chaste and light and perfect. 

Outside of this room, the castle is preparing for a war that will likely mean the end of them all. It is very likely that within days the army of the dead will arrive, and they will both perish fighting. But here. Now. None of that matters. Now she is safe here, in his arms, and he is safe in hers too, their babe protected between them.

Whatever may come will come. But for now they are together. And that will have to be enough.

That _will_ be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who helped in the writing of this which includes, but is not limited to, anyone who got trapped in a conversation with me this past week and a half about this. You're doing the Lord's work and I don't deserve any of you.
> 
> And before anyone asks: yes they survive. No Jaime doesn't return to Cersei. They have a girl and name her ebony raven dark'ness dementia way lannistarth and live happily ever after. Obviously.


End file.
